Old Enough To Know Better

“Ten bucks says he takes his shirt off in the next five minutes.” Gretchen clutched a file folder to her ample chest as she stared outside.

Kasey finally took a look. “My God, it’s Tarzan with a chain saw.” Right at eye level, a really cute dark-haired guy stood balanced in a large mesquite tree. As the pruned branches toppled to the ground fifteen feet below, a couple of other workers cut them into smaller sections and loaded them into the back of a trailer.

His square jaw clenched, safety goggles making him look seriously macho, Trimmer Guy gripped his chain saw and made precision cuts. His muscles bunched under a sweat-stained T-shirt.

“I’ll take that bet,” said Amy Whittenburg, a forty-something divorcee with very red hair. “That’s a company logo on the back of his shirt. Ashton Landscaping probably requires their employees to keep the shirts on to promote the company.”

“I have to say he’s promoting that company in a mighty fine manner,” said Myra Detmar, the receptionist. “Mighty fine. Look at those shoulders. Too bad he’s wearing gloves. We can’t check out his ring finger.”

“There you go again, making a sex object out of some poor slob,” called Jerry Peters from his desk across the room. “If a bunch of guys acted the way you women act, we’d be crucified.” Balding and on the pudgy side, Jerry always chimed in with a dose of indignation during a Hottie Alert.

“Oh, bite me,” Gretchen shot back. “Between the insulation and the noise of his saw, he can’t hear a word we say, and with the reflective coating on this window he can’t even see us. It’s like watching a movie.”

“More like Candid Camera,” Jerry said. “I think I’ll wander out there and ask him if he knows there’s a huddle of rabid females on the other side of the glass pretending he’s the star attraction at Chippendale’s.”

Gretchen turned to glare at Jerry. “You do and you’ll never get another double chocolate espresso on my coffee run, bub.”

“Well, Tarzan’s adorable,” said Robbi Harrison, who’d returned from her honeymoon a week ago, “but I’m so spoken for. I’ll have to leave him for the rest of you.” She walked back to her desk. “I just had to take a peek for old time’s sake.”

“I tell you, that Ashton Landscaping shirt is comin’ off,” Gretchen said. “It’s gotta be at least ninety out there, and handling that chain saw can’t be easy. Look, he’s turned it off and propped it in the crotch of the tree.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.” Kasey winked at her.

Gretchen laughed. “Mark my words, he’s thinking about losing the shirt.”

“I’m betting another ten that he does,” Kasey said, joining in the ever-popular game. She studied the shirt in question. Ashton Landscaping was stenciled on the back in green script. She tried to think why the name Ashton sounded familiar. Even the guy looked like someone she should know. Information was working its way in from the far reaches of her memory, but it wasn’t quite there yet.

“As long as we’re throwing down bets,” said Amy, “we might as well draw straws for him, too, in case he turns out to be available.”

“Un-freaking-believable,” Jerry muttered. “It’s the straws again.”

“It’s the only fair way to handle a Hottie Alert,” Gretchen said. “Robbi, we need you back over here. You can be the designated straw holder.”

Kasey’s heart began to pound. She’d have to take part in the straw thing or lose face. So far, she’d never ended up with the long straw, so she hadn’t been required to go out and ask whatever hottie they were ogling for a date. Mostly she’d been relieved not to be forced into doing it. Then again, maybe peer pressure was the best way to launch her new persona.

“Here you go.” Robbi came up beside them. She held out her hand, and four stubs of paper sprouted from her closed fist. “May the best woman win.”

Kasey gazed at the stubs of paper. It was like a game of chicken. The idea was for the lucky gal to go out with the guy and make him drool without her handing over the goods. But twice since Kasey had started working at Beckworth, a woman had taken the dare and ended up engaged. Kasey wasn’t about to let that happen to her.

Yet she was at a distinct disadvantage considering her age and the fact that until she’d graduated from college she’d been nerd-girl. She wasn’t a virgin, but she’d never been assertive with guys and never been in demand. Her first job had seemed like the perfect time to start over and create a whole new Kasey Braddock, though, so far, she’d really done nothing more than change her look.

A long straw would put her goal to change her image to the ultimate test, and maybe it was time. Taking a deep breath, she reached for a stub of paper and hoped for the long straw.

SAM ASHTON LOVED taking a mangy-looking mesquite with good bones and transforming it into a sculptural work of art. He’d turn over other pruning jobs to his workers, but he didn’t trust anyone else to make the right cuts on a beauty like this one. Besides, he’d never outgrown the joy of climbing trees.

While he worked, he thought about the woman he’d noticed this morning parking her little red Miata in the lot next to the building. He’d been lounging in his truck drinking coffee while he waited for his employees to arrive at the job site. During down times, he usually thought about ways to boost business.

More business would be good for him, but even better for his little brother’s band, which desperately needed a backer. Although Colin and the other band members operated on a shoestring, the Tin Tarantulas had created a Gen-Y fan base in the Phoenix area, and Sam would love to help them buy better equipment and record a demo. They had the potential to make it.

He’d been daydreaming about that when here came trouble, pulling into a space in the next row, lining up exactly in front of him. The red convertible said look at me, but as if that weren’t enough, the vanity plate announced that the blond woman driving it was SO REDY.

Sam’s pulse rate had picked up. He’d always been a sucker for a woman in a red ragtop, and one who announced she was “so ready” had real promise. He’d sipped his coffee as she’d flipped down her visor, pulled off her shades and run a comb through sleek hair that hung straight to the shoulders of her white suit jacket. When she’d dabbed on some lip gloss from an applicator wand, he’d figured it was likely as red as the car, even though he couldn’t see for sure.

He hadn’t dated much in the past few months, mostly because he was getting picky. These days if a relationship had no potential, he backed away much faster than he used to. At thirty, he didn’t care to waste time on dead ends anymore. His last girlfriend hadn’t been ready to settle down, partly because of her age. He had to admit there was a big gap between twenty-three and thirty.

But even though he’d started thinking in terms of the M word, he was still a typical guy, and visuals snagged him first. Yeah, he should be willing to ignore the figure and see into a woman’s soul. He wasn’t quite that evolved yet.

Therefore he’d waited to see what kind of body went with the red car, the shiny hair and the saucy license plate before he committed himself to being interested. At last she’d opened her door. With his first glimpse of leg, his interest had shot up exponentially.

He’d returned his travel mug to its holder in the console and wrapped both arms around the steering wheel as he’d leaned forward. What followed was an outstanding view of the cutest ass ever to grace a bucket seat, wrapped in a short white skirt that was barely legal. Thank God, the mini was still in fashion.

After closing her door, she’d reached over to grab her shoulder bag from the passenger seat. Excellent. Sam watched with relish as the white material stretched across her bottom. Yowza. He’d gazed, enjoyed…and leaned on the horn. Immediately he’d backed off the wheel and the damned horn. He’d driven through a rural area yesterday and a bunch of bugs had done a kamikaze number on his windshield. He’d hoped that would keep her from seeing him clearly.

She’d turned and glanced over at his truck. Fortunately, because of the angle, she wouldn’t have been able to see the Ashton Landscaping lettered on the cab doors. He’d picked up the contract for today’s job and pretended to study it while he’d kept track of her from the corner of his eye. God, how uncool was that, to accidentally honk the horn. She’d shrugged and started toward the building, her hips swaying, her high-heeled sandals tapping on the asphalt.

Sam let out a breath. Before he finished today, he needed to find out who she was. If nothing else, he could leave a note taped to her steering wheel, but he’d rather talk to her face-to-face. As he pruned the mesquite tree, he wondered where her office might be, which one of the building’s tenants she worked for. Too bad the windows all had reflective glass, because from his perch he would be able to see into several of the building’s offices.

Then again, maybe the reflective glass was a good thing. If he got another eyeful of her, especially if she happened to be bending over a file drawer, he might tumble right out of the tree. She was one hot babe.

And speaking of hot, thinking about her while working like a farm animal had spiked his internal temperature. Sweat stung his eyes and rolled down his spine. Life would be a hell of a lot more pleasant without his shirt.

After turning off the saw, he propped it carefully in the crotch of the tree. Then he took off his work gloves and goggles and tucked them in beside the saw. Finally he braced his knees against the trunk for balance and reached for the hem of his shirt.

KASEY TUGGED on a stub of paper. And tugged, and tugged some more, until she stood holding the eight-inch strip that was clearly the long straw. The other three women groaned with disappointment.

Before Kasey could get her mind around the fact that she’d won, Gretchen gasped. “The shirt!”

All attention focused on the window once again as Tarzan of the Chain Saw took off his goggles, peeled his shirt from his back and draped it over a tree limb. A collective sigh went up from the group of women.

“I can see his ring finger,” said Myra in hushed tones. “No ring.”

Amy cleared her throat. “Didn’t notice. Too busy looking at his body to notice his fingers. Girls, behold a work of art.”

“Wouldn’t you know.” Gretchen gestured toward the window. “There’s the answer to my prayers, and here I stand with a freaking short straw.”

Kasey’s first impulse was to trade straws with Gretchen. This guy was way out of her league. Her dates had been few and far between, but they’d all been with braniacs, not jocks. And not a one of them had possessed a build to equal this. But trading straws was not an option, not if she wanted to polish her so-far-undeserved rep as a happening chick whose license plate announced she was SO REDY. A happening chick would use that long straw to claim her prize.

“He’s beyond gorgeous,” said Amy. “Look at that. Even a tattoo.”

Kasey screwed up her courage to take another look at her challenge du jour, who was currently mopping his face with his shirt. Sure enough, he had a tattoo on his upper arm that looked like a ring of barbed wire.

As she stared at that tattoo, her memory delivered the information she’d been trying to retrieve ever since her first glimpse out the window. She’d seen that tattoo twelve years ago, wrapped around the arm of her stepbrother Jim’s high school buddy, a dreamy guy by the name of Sam Ashton.

She could still picture the two teenagers out by the family’s budget-sized swimming pool, radio blaring as they worked on their tans before prom. She’d been the eight-year-old brat who’d spent the afternoon splashing them from her vantage point in the pool. Finally Sam had responded, diving in and giving her a thorough dunking.

The cut at the corner of her mouth had been totally her fault. If she hadn’t flailed around so much, she wouldn’t have whacked herself in the mouth with her secret decoder ring. The minute Sam had noticed she was bleeding, he’d rushed her into the house, both of them dripping all over her mother’s clean floor. Then he’d insisted on going with her to the emergency room, where the doctor had given her two small stitches.

Sam had sat right there, even though he’d looked decidedly green during the stitching process. He’d apologized about a hundred times. The next day he’d sent her a bouquet of flowers. That was when she’d fallen hopelessly in love as only an eight-year-old can fall for a sophisticated older man of eighteen.